


Aneirin Pritchard

by imperator_titus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: AU - Jane Eyre, And know jack shit about Victorian Era, Atypical Victorian Female, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I love my nerdy friend for the inspiration, I've never actually read Jane Eyre, The Gloves Come Off, historical fiction - Freeform, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperator_titus/pseuds/imperator_titus
Summary: Lord Hux requires a live-in caretaker and is pleasantly surprised by who walks through his door.





	1. Curiosity and Autopsies

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my dear friend [Delaney](http://trelaney.tumblr.com/) for the inspiration and also beating me over the head with her superior Period Drama knowledge and also being my untiring cheerleader for all of my work.  
> Originally Posted: 2018-09-10, Revised: 2019-04-25  
> Link to [A Million Lives: Collector’s Edition Vol. 1](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sm_XizydRPh5Vl74mdjmU60AkvRwemHg/view), a PDF version of the book.

Lord Armitage Hux, for all his wealth and land, the sprawling estates and influence, was unable to break his body’s habit of being frequently subpar. As a child, he was plagued by illnesses, some graver than others, and while his constitution had gotten better with age it was still a curse he bore. Some had whispered behind closed doors and near to ears that it was a sickness of the soul, an unhealable wound given to him by way of his father’s sinfulness. Born out of wedlock, a lord’s bastard son, Armitage used what little strength he had to fight tooth and nail to claim his place at the table, even if it meant acts seemingly unkind and cruel. At Brendol’s side, the young man had learned more devious schemes than he employed, but people would always spit out the old saying; the apple did not fall far from the tree. No one considered whether or not this particular apple wanted to lie at the tree’s roots. Perhaps the apple wished to roll down the hill, far far away from its parent tree.

The list of physicians and other practitioners of the medical sciences that would come when he called had grown short and so he’d become desperate. He was left with little choice but to forgo the men of higher stations and lowered himself in supplication to someone who was only seen fit to aid the disadvantaged. From the mouths of his staff, he learned a name and Armitage would not soon forget it, even if he had wished.

Ultimately the lord of the house had been expecting a man and in a way that was what he saw when Aneirin Pritchard walked into his home. Of small stature but with a form that solidified her presence in reality, Lord Hux’s new resident nurse was a mystifying creature. A woman wrapped in the trappings of a man, the waistcoat and trousers most immediately catching his eye, was possibly the last thing he had imagined seeing in his life. Hair cut short to her chin framed a kind and gentle face and blue eyes sparkling with curiosity, she held out her gloved hand to be shaken in greeting. “Lord Hux, it is a pleasure.”

Tentatively her new employer took the offered hand and gripped it with polite firmness. “Miss Pritchard. I apologize, I was under the impression that I was expecting a-”

“Man?” A smile bloomed on her face and a slight colour rose to Armitage’s pallid cheeks. “It is the name, my parents had a queer sense of humour; they, too, were expecting a man, but fate and fortune can make fools of us all. I also suspect there are not many that carry themselves the way that I do. Please, I take no offence, and feel free to call me Aneirin.”

“Aneirin,” he repeated, readjusting the tight grip he had on her smaller hand. “It is a pleasure to be making your acquaintance.” Their hands fell away but he could still feel the lingering sensation of her touch’s pressure. “I suspect you may have been travelling for quite some time and I believe there may be a meal waiting for us. I would be remiss if I did not offer for you to join me.”

A coy little smirk played at the corners of her unpainted lips. “I would hate for you to be remiss and I am too impolite to refuse a meal.”

Armitage beckoned for her to follow him into the sitting room where a midday meal had been laid out with tea, an intimate setting for two. His forehead wrinkled with confusion but he said nothing as she removed her gloves, placing them in a pocket before she sat down. After tea was transferred to delicate cups, he felt no longer capable of hiding his curiosity. “Please forgive me, but I must ask.”

“Never liked skirts. Or dolls; they are much too disturbing with their soulless stares,” Miss Pritchard answered before her employer could form the question, opening her eyes wide to mimic the aforementioned toys. “Would rather roll in the mud and pretend a stick was a sword. I suppose I have never placed much value in the opinions of others based upon social standards. Fashion, careers, desires, personality. Vocality. Bluntness.” The amber liquid suitably cooled she sipped it, humming her approval of the choice in leaves. Armitage did his best to not stare too long for the sake of propriety.

“A female medical doctor,” he remarked with a lift in his tone, “that is _quite_ the bitten thumb towards societal standards.”

“I cannot call myself a doctor,” she sighed, indicative of her dissatisfaction. “As you can imagine, they will not allow me. However, I have taught myself a great deal, enough to help those in need without the coin purse for properly educated care.”

An amused grin threatened his lips and Lord Hux took a bite from his plate as he carefully mulled the next words over in his mind. His companion was in the middle of her own masticating when he spoke up softly. “I am under the impression, Miss Aneirin, that we will be the subjects of an intriguing relationship.”

“Most certainly. I am anticipating its promise to be _very_ interesting and educational.” She waited for him to be sipping his tea when she posited a question. “If you should expire, could I possibly have permission to use you for my studies?”

Armitage managed to both choke and cough at the same time, the fine amber mist of his spat tea staining both himself and the woman opposite him. Unbothered she helped fix his appearance, dabbing at the splatter with a handkerchief she produced from a pocket and wet with her spit. “W-what-”

“Human saliva is designed to break down organic material, it stands to reason, and is confirmed with my studies, that it aids in reducing stains from common food items.”

“Not that, God Almighty, what would possess you to ask me for my…” he struggled to find a word that didn’t feel like licking ashes from a spent fireplace, his thin face haunted and stricken.

“My apologies, Lord Hux, I should have waited to broach the subject.” Finished trying to save his clothing from worse damage, Aneirin sat back in her chair and poured the poor man a new cup of tea. “One cannot exactly poke around in a living body without serious damage to its owner, so, for the most part, those of us curious about the inner workings of the human vessel must do with the departed. Unlike some less scrupulous men of science, I prefer to ask potential subjects for their permission. Out of respect for them and their wishes.”

Armitage took a fortifying drink of tea, his shaking hands causing a clattering between the cup and its saucer. “Respect.”

“Yes, I promise the utmost respect is shown to you, a subject and their body, almost as if you were still alive,” the blonde explained seriously. “I believe it is a very generous and noble thing, to permit one's body to be used to further the march of modern science. It allows us to better understand and thus save future lives. Therefore I am eternally grateful and respectful to those who accept the agreement.” She steadied his shaking hands, not being able to stand the noise any longer. His face became almost as red as the hair on his head and his heart raced to have her bare hand touch him, even if there was a barrier of glove between them. He could practically feel the heat of her skin, his own hands normally quite cold themselves. “I am not offended if you say no, Lord Hux. It is an unusual request.”

“I must cogitate on the subject.” Her touch retreated and he barely registered her acknowledgement, both relieved and disappointed that they no longer shared such an intimate connection. 

“To be able to see inside your head would be wonderful,” Aneirin said softly. When the horrified expression returned to her employer’s eyes, she gasped. “I only meant- not that I would- your thoughts!”

“My thoughts?” Armitage repeated, his brows knitting together.

“I was musing that your mind must be quite the collection of thoughts,” she tried to explain, shoulders sagging and eyes diverting. “I did not intend to cause you distress. It was foolish of me to vocalize that particular theory.”

“Perhaps you have become too bold in your attempt to subvert modern society,” the lord replied. When her face grew annoyed, he continued. “I am only teasing you, my lady. You are proving to be an excellent companion.” Before he sipped his tea, Armitage’s plush lips curled in a secret smile.

The rest of their meal passed in unexpectedly comfortable silence.


	2. Moths to the Flame

It came as little surprise to Lord Hux that he would become very enamoured with his new nurse. Miss Pritchard was a bit stern but she was unabashedly affectionate in ways that were only slightly inappropriate but were consequently quite humorous. A touch on the arm, a squeeze of the hand, a wet cloth tenderly drawn across the brow. Once, he had been in a feverish delirium but he was still quite aware that she sat at the edge of his bed, brushing the hair away from his face. He did not mention it, then or ever, because he did not want to give her reason to stop as much as he did not want to admit that he had found pleasure in it. A pleasure of the heart, one he had thought long dead.

They had spent their time as good friends when he was not lain in bed to recover and even then there was still some camaraderie. Aneirin was dreadful at chess but formidable at games of cards or chance. Armitage enjoyed their curious conversations, anything from history to modern politics, the sciences or literature, she appeared to have as rambling a list of interests as he did. There was a comfort in their silent ritual of reading in the library, sitting in chairs turned just enough that he could spy her small form out of his eye’s corner. Once he had offered her one of his rolled cigarettes.

“Not good for the lungs, I must decline.” He decided to follow that line of thinking.

“And why is that?” She didn’t raise her eyes up from the book in her lap. _Dante._

“Our lungs have survived quite well taking in the fresh air, it stands to reason they are not meant to consume anything else.” The flip of a page. “I have seen the lungs of those who have abstained and those who have not. The latter were not in the state I would wish upon the organs of you or myself. But please, do not let me sway you. You are your own man, after all.”

Armitage had been about to light his cigarette when he decided to put it back into the silver case he’d produced from his coat pocket. “I am, but I have not seen the difference between the insides of the healthy and the ill.”

“I pray yours would look quite handsome should they be exposed.” Aneirin realized she had been too blunt. “While you are of course not inhabiting your body. Though I suppose there is always surgery but that is still a risky business I would not want to see you need.”

He laughed, a nervous but ultimately amused sound. “I should hope I am dead under those circumstances but my only regret will be that my death would render you unable to tell me how appealing my organs are to your studied eyes.”

Blue eyes slid to her right and green ones met them. “Lord Hux, are you inviting me to peek at your entrails?”

He pretended to pick a speck of something off of his trousers. “Not presently, no.”

“But possibly in the event that you have unfortunately perished.”

“Yes.” A book snapping shut with a papery thud.

Like snapping a fly between two hands.

A beat of a moth’s wings before it is ensnared in the spider’s web.

“And on that occasion you hope that I will find your bloodied guts, the no longer writhing snakes of your intestines, your still heart, and glistening kidneys-” he couldn’t look away, as if mesmerized to walking right into the mouth of a leviathan breaching the sea’s surface to swallow him whole, “beautiful?”

“Would only that some quality of my corporeal being was as such to you.” Aneirin opened her book and resumed reading. He assumed the strange conversation was finished.

“How exceedingly romantic of you, Lord Hux.”

“How so?”

“What could be more intimate than having someone’s hands in your chest cavity?” He was unable to focus on his reading but she appeared to have no issue as she continued to flip pages. “Do you know anything of Egyptian theology?”

“I cannot say that I do. I have visited the British Museum’s collection before but I am afraid I did not absorb much information.”

“They believed that the god of death had to weigh your heart against a feather. In order to enter the afterlife, one's heart had to be light, achieved through good deeds.” She flicked a page. “It makes me feel a bit like the god of death when I weigh a heart. Unfortunately, they are all quite heavy.”

“I am afraid my own would sit low in your scales, Miss Pritchard.”

“A pity.”

“Do you believe your own heart will be heavy?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you have done so much good?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, the god of death obviously belongs in a realm unlike our own, it stands to reason that his scales would work differently.”

“Or feathers in the afterlife weigh much more than they do in this life.” Aneirin chuckled and colour rose in his cheeks. He couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“Seems I am not the only one prone to strange thoughts in this manor.”

“Far from it. I have many a strange thought.”

“Any concerning me?”

“You, Miss Pritchard, are very improper.” Her teeth gleamed in the firelight.

“It brings me great joy to ruffle your feathers, Lord Hux, but I will cease my play if it upsets your delicate sensibilities.” The sound of approaching footsteps that would undoubtedly signal the readiness of their evening meal had the nurse shutting her book one last time and she turned to her employer. “I thought I had asked you to call me Aneirin.”

“I cannot rightly ask you to call me Armitage. I only call the servants by their given names.”

“Why can I not call you Armitage? What would be so wrong about calling me Aneirin? I _am_ one of your employees, after all.”

He huffed and stood, fixing his appearance once on his feet. “It would be inappropriate for you to do so. And you are more than just my servant.”

A… _friend._


	3. What's In A Name

While their conversations weren’t entirely proper for an unwed lord and lady, their physical contact was strictly medical and innocent. At least that is what Armitage told himself when his heart palpitated strangely in his chest at her proximity or an errant brush of their limbs. Even her words, as strange as they were sometimes, made him feel a familiarity and fondness he was unused to until he had required her services. The man was being tended to in his bed for the second time during her employment when he was compelled to speak oddly to her once again. “You would make an excellent mother.”

“Oh?” Aneirin was rubbing the ache out of his legs from being in bed too long. It was extremely intimate and it had taken some convincing. The gloves had helped, but everything only aided his body in betraying and embarrassing him. If she had noticed she was too professional or desensitized to care. Perhaps she enjoyed the effect she had on him, a handsome and wealthy man, but knew better than to bring attention to his predicament.

“Very caring.” He made a soft sound that might as well have been a whore’s moan to his ears as she massaged his thigh.

“I suppose. But I do not have a maternal bone in my body. I am not fond of children.” Somehow the thought made him sad, a pain forming in his chest that seeped down into his stomach. “I would not want to bring children into this world if I cannot properly love them. It would be cruel and unkind to them. I would not risk their happiness with the belief that once they exist I would be compelled to care for them.”

Armitage had become so preoccupied with her words that even the encroaching march of her fingers up his leg did not bother him as much as before. When he was done with his internal dissection she was finished herself, sitting on the edge of the bed in silence. Melancholic. In the dying rays of sunlight coming through his bedroom window, he could see her cheek shine. “I did not intend to upset you. I apologize, Miss Pritchard. I only wished to expound upon my impression of your caring nature.”

“Of course not, Lord Hux. Do not trouble yourself.” She produced a handkerchief that she wiped her face with, sniffling. “I know I am a peculiar person. I am not womanly, I have no interests in children or family, I am not content with being the lady of a house. But I cannot change who I am, even if it means I shall die alone and unloved. I will not lie to myself and the world, it would not be right. It would self-inflicted torture.”

It was improper, his hands were exposed and he wasn’t dressed like the gentleman he was, but Armitage tentatively reached out to touch the fabric of her shirt sleeve, her coat lying over the back of a chair when she’d decided to smooth his pains away. “It is admirable, to be true to yourself. Many would rather wear a mask so that they might be accepted. You walk this earth with your soul bared for all to see.”

Her eyes and face were turning red from emotion and she’d given up on drying her tears. “Do you believe that, or are you attempting to comfort me in my moment of weakness?”

“Both.” He wanted to dry those tears. His long pale fingers carefully wrapped around her upper arm that proved hot against his cold skin. “I am willing to forego societal standards if I may do anything that might make you feel better, my lady.”

The muscles in her forehead pulled her dark brows together as she considered his words. In the space between his body and the edge of the bed, she laid down, using his chest as her pillow. Armitage rested his hand on her shoulder, arm flush with her back. “This is highly inappropriate, Lord Hux.”

“I am quite aware. But as you have helped me, I wish to help you.” He barely managed to keep himself from kissing the crown of her head, his face lingering there as his nose could detect the scent of whatever soap she employed during her baths. His other hand wiped away a line of salty wetness from her soft cheek. “It pains me to see you so stricken that you must weep.”

“I feel like such a fool, crying like some hysteric.” His mind swirled around the word, _hysteric_. On the arm she had draped over his chest, he traced soothing lines with his fingertips.

“You are no fool. It is part of your honesty.” Gently Armitage took her hand and placed it over the place his heart should be, thumping against his ribcage insistently. “On occasion, I wish I was capable of crying so easily. Possibly I might feel better.”

Aneirin sniffed, chuckled slightly, and smiled. Instinctively she pushed her face more firmly against his nightshirt. “It typically does relieve some pressing emotions.”

Neither seemed in any rush to part, lying together separated by a collection of blankets and clothing. At one point Armitage was sure she’d fallen asleep, at another, he’d been the one softly snoring, sitting up with the weight of her head on his chest.

It was gloomy outside of the room when he awoke by himself, a fine misting rain turning the air and sky grey. His heart felt heavy and abandoned until soft footsteps breached the quiet of his room. “I am aware of your opinion on eating in bed, but I have decided you need your rest, Lord Hux.”

He watched as she set the tray she was carrying on a table and approached the bed to place another pillow behind him so that he could sit up more fully. “Armitage.” Aneirin glanced at him in confusion. “Please, call me Armitage.”

“Only if you call me Aneirin.” He softly took her hand into his, soaking in its warmth and softness. She seemed comfortable with the contact, didn’t shy away or discuss its impropriety.

“Aneirin, please call me by my given name from now on.” He released her hand so she could bring the tray over, but she lingered at first by his side.

“Of course, Armitage. Now, let us make you better.”


	4. The Fall of Rome

It is not the fall that kills, but the landing. 

Thankfully, the landing for Armitage was into waters warm and gentle, cleansing him of the darkness in his heart, splitting it open so that it could be properly put back together again. The cracks would be sealed like wet clay under the potter’s fingers, moulding him into something new and beautiful. Without needing to battle the elements for sustenance, shelter, or warmth, there was one last thing he required to be whole. That enchanting, intoxicating, most powerful of emotions.

Lord Armitage Hux had fallen deeply into a love so pure and encompassing he was sure it was the dream of a dying man, the last wish of a life winking out. There was no possibility that he should know something so sweet and beautiful, for it had been embedded on his psyche that a creature as disgusting and vile as him deserved no such kindness.

So many times he had wished for death, would have gladly embraced it so that he might be free of mortal anguish and pain. He had seen no light in his life, no purpose or meaning. Just a wretched being going through the motions, living because there was nothing else to do, living for living’s sake. He could have ended his own life, but there was no romanticism in it if he had no proper tear-inspiring heartbreak to fuel the endeavour.

Now he could not bear to leave the world, the thought of someone weeping over his cold corpse with a heart rent to shreds almost moving him to warm, fat tears.

Armitage had been seeking to ignore the feeling, it was not right. He was not worthy of it, his value as a companion and lover so low it might as well have fallen off the edge of the world. 

Then one morning he had awoken to Aneirin sobbing into his chest. Apparently, he had been so still, sleeping so soundly that she had briefly panicked believing he had perished in his sleep. Of course, upon closer examination, he was well but the clenching of her heart and stomach did not leave her so easily and she had no choice but to weep. “I cannot lose you, not so soon. I would miss you too much.”

“I am still here. You will not be rid of me so easily if I have any power over it.” Armitage tenderly stroked her hair and back, playing idly with the adjusting strap of her waistcoat. His bow-shaped lips quirked and he hummed in delighted amusement. “You are a strange one, with your trousers and jackets.”

“By all social standards, you are also strange, Armitage. Here you are unmarried at 30 with a sizable fortune and land at your disposal.” Aneirin had meant it in jest, a gentle prodding. They shared many battles of wit and insults. Armitage had even allowed her to call him a ‘rich red-haired bastard’ when they had drained a bottle of liquor just a little too far one night. She did not know any better, did not mean it the way it sounded to his ears. Just the flexing of her profanity, further evidence that she was no delicate lady that required sheltering from the crass reality of life.

‘Beautifully red,’ she had said while staring at the ceiling in a drunken haze, her feet rudely resting on a low table, ‘positively _fucking_ gorgeous.’

“I am currently inclined to change that.” Aneirin sat up, her eyes and nose red from crying, but she appeared confused more than anything. His bare hand rested on her elbow, caressing the fabric of her shirt.

“Armitage, I-” Lord Hux gave her no room to deny his declaration of romantic intent.

“I am quite aware you think yourself a tragic soul that must remain lonely and isolated, but I have grown in need of your sweet presence. I cannot imagine a day I do not hear your voice, smell your lingering scent, or feel the warmth of your life near my own.” He took the hand nearest to him into his own with a desperate squeeze. “I am quite fond of you. You are unique and intelligent, kind and honest. I could not begin to formulate the idea of a more perfect companion and partner to walk through this world with me.”

“I…” For a moment that felt like the unfolding of another life, one where her answer would be different, Armitage’s heart stopped and he prepared himself to be intensely disappointed. “I am afraid I must do something wildly inappropriate.”

“I will not tell a soul.”

Lips warm and soft found his own and pressed with hesitant need, their hearts audible with the hammering thunderous beats that crescendoed with the proximity of their bodies. Aneirin’s hand rested with her fingertips just barely brushing his throat, his own pale and spidery fingers cradling the back of her head, intertwined with the short hairs there. She tasted like her morning tea and he like his stale saliva from sleep. That did not stop them from repeatedly separating and coming back together, quiet sounds of passion hummed and gasped.

When finally they broke apart, he curled his lips into a grin, green eyes hazy with attraction, but his tone was amused. “What happened to that talk concerning cleanliness and the prevention of sickness, my lady?”

“You just have a mild seasonal malady and I am much hardier than you.” The way his eyes washed over her form before returning to her face made her flush.

“I find your… _hardiness_ quite pleasing.”

“Careful, Armitage Hux,” Aneirin stood up so that she could retrieve his morning meal, her hands smoothing the wrinkles from her trousers, “or maybe I will let the devil have you, if you are so inclined to be so sinful.”

“My darling, I would so miss you in the depths of Hell, but think how delicious that forbidden relationship would be, a sweet angel and a tormented soul.” The playful purr in his voice earned him a smirk and a special spark in her eye.

“I suppose I will have to either save you or lower myself to your level of perversion.” She turned on her heel to leave his room and Armitage threw his head back against the pillows, shutting his eyes tight to ward off the awful thoughts she was planting in his head, an uncontained tooth-revealing smile on his face.


	5. Desublimation

A proposal had been made but no particular hurry was made; Armitage had not been called on for potential matches in years and Aneirin was so queer and relatively reclusive that no one had asked for her hand since before her parents had passed. The manor staff had already been witness to their closeness and, as she did not join him for his social events, there was no rush to snuff out any rumours. He made sure his servants were suitably tight-lipped and so they remained patient.

Though, there were a pair of eyes and ears that weren’t so controllable.

Lord Hux, recovered and colour regained, was dressed as a proper gentleman that had business requiring his attention. Normally he would just leave, informing his steward to make arrangements, but now there was someone he desired to make aware of his absence. Undoubtedly she would notice, but he did not wish to worry her, cause her undue distress. Now someone worried about him, missed him, needed him to be well and safe.

The longer Aneirin Pritchard stayed at the Hux manor, the more freedom he gave her in his household. As his nurse, she could make demands, though they were more akin to gentle requests, on his staff in accordance with his well-being. Then Aneirin had moved from the appropriately-sized bedroom at the end of the hall to one a bit larger and closer to the master’s suite. Eventually a spare office was commandeered. Items of importance to her but not strictly to his health were requested when someone was sent into town. A medical library and collection of instruments sprouted in the Hux household and the nurse was kept up-to-date in recent events just as religiously as the lord of the manor.

Armitage found her in his kitchen of all places, fiddling in the corner where she had set up a spare table out of the servants’ way. He made his steps deliberate as not to scare her and peeked over her shoulder, which was facilitated by the considerable difference in their heights. His tone was of false disinterest while his natural curiosity attempted to formulate the answer before the question was even asked. “Excuse me, Miss Pritchard, but why is there animal flesh sitting out in my kitchen?”

“Because, my dear Lord Hux, a man has won 2,500 francs for disproving the theory of spontaneous generation and I wanted to see if I could replicate the experiment myself.” In rigorous scientific terms, she explained the problem, the process of the setup, and the desired effect.

“Intriguing.” His eyes lingered over the table. He pointed a gloved finger to three covered trays she hadn’t used in her discussion. “And this?”

“Well, I wanted to do a little experiment of my own design, prove all that paranoid handwashing had a purpose. I rubbed my hands on one slice of the fresh bread after not washing my hands the whole day, then I washed my hands and rubbed them for the same amount of time on a new piece of bread. The third has not been touched except by a sanitized instrument to move it to the tray; it shall serve as a standard by which I will compare any mould growth. To reduce the presence of dust and such falling on them, I covered them, but not as airtight as my other endeavour.”

“It seems they shall go hand in hand.” Armitage chuckled. “That was an unintended joke.”

“It was quite humorous all the same.” Aneirin looked him up and down. “I take it you are venturing into the city?”

“I am, but I will not dally. Strictly business.” Most times, before he met her, he would make social visits, enjoy some lavish meals or a show or opera. “Unfortunately, there is someone I cannot bear to be away from for too long.”

“Fortunately, that someone also cannot be without you for too long, but I will manage.” A grin spread over her lips before they drew in to meet his in a chaste but lingering kiss. “We must find a day to disgust everyone with a public display of affection.”

“We must, but it may be prudent to wait until your experiments bear results.”

Her blue eyes looked up to the ceiling and she tilted her head in thought. “Why is that, my lord?”

“Because, my lady, if my assessment of your cleanliness fetish is true, you might become so angered with me that you do not want to be in my presence.” They both giggled, making no attempt to be modest or quiet. Armitage enjoyed making her sound so amused.

“You might be correct. At the very least I would be cross.” She got on her toes to kiss him once more before seeing him to the door, wishing him a safe trip.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found the scraps of meat and bread missing and none of the staff had an answer for her. Sighing, she went about setting the experiment right again, finding new suitably uncontaminated pieces of raw meat procured from the butcher’s that morning. Aneirin was preparing to seal one of the glass jars when she heard a clatter behind her.

Shrieking filled the kitchen, blood splashed the once-white tiles. Stinging. The outer layers of the skin on her upper arm were opened to the air. From the preciseness of the cut and the sound her shirt had made when it was torn indicated a knife, most likely one from the chef’s block.

The smell of mould and dust, an offensive human odour. Teeth, gnashing, brown with rot, cracked and scabbed lips pulled back in a snarl. Brown eyes wild like an animal’s, black and grey hair like matted fur.

Aneirin attempted to best the person, the creature, whatever it was, earning a slash of its sharp nails across her face. The noise had earned the attention of the staff, but the thundering of feet did not ring in her ears while the hissing and wailing continued. The steward and chef, both men of considerable strength and stature, managed to pull her attacker away and drag the spitting thing out of the room. The housekeeper, an elderly woman whose grey hair had once been a lovely shade of chestnut brown, rushed to the nurse’s aid with a cloth, dabbing at her wounds to staunch the bleeding.

Aneirin hadn’t realized that she was crying until the taste of salt touched her tongue. With a fortifying breath, Armitage’s intended came to her feet. In a dazed stupor, she managed to clean and dress her wounds with the housekeeper’s extra set of hands; then whatever strength she had found fled and her feet fell out from under her, thankfully depositing her body onto the settee in ‘her’ office. The room spun and the edges of her vision greyed, forcing her to close her eyes to fight the feeling of nausea. Her heart ached, bruised where it had been pounding against the inside of her chest. The writhing snakes of her guts coiled into tight painful knots, her muscles were taut and strained.

“God protect me, tell me what happened? I do not trust my own eyes nor my memory after suffering such a fright.” The steward had arrived, done with whatever task had been required of him, and stood over her reclining form with the housekeeper. They shared a silent but meaningful gaze.

“Miss Pritchard, that was Lady Hux.” The words had her sitting bolt upright.

The blood rushed from her head, the room spun once again as if she were in the arms of an overeager dancing partner, and she would have fallen to the floor had the steward not caught her. She was not aware of how much time had passed, but it had at least been long enough that someone could place a damp cloth on her forehead. The two heads of the house staff still stood over her, the woman wiping her brow.

Aneirin was not surprised at how thready and weak her voice was when finally she could speak again. “Armitage is... married?”

“No, my lady. Lady Hux is his stepmother, the late Lord Brendol Hux’s wife.” There was not much room in her mind to map out the possible explanations and situations that led them to that point, but Aneirin managed a deep sigh of relief. She bid the two leave her after she was reassured that Lady Hux had been properly dealt with, which had apparently involved locking her in the manor’s attic.

She looked around the room and decided what was of true importance to her. Those things went into a satchel. Lady and luggage put on a warm coat and started walking.

It would be a long time before she stopped.


	6. The March of Progress

The trek across the moors was long and difficult, but Aneirin was determined to place distance between herself and that accursed house. 

  
_Did he wish to lock me up as well in some dark recess?_

The straps of her satchel dug into her shoulders.

  
_Was I to be some sacrifice?_

Her feet ached in her boots.

  
_Did he love me, truly, at all?_

She was in desperate need of water and food. 

  
_Was that woman deranged before or after she had been sequestered?_

Ahead was just the tip of a farmhouse peeking up from behind a hill. She walked towards it, if only for directions. 

  
_What sickness befell her to be put away?_

To where she did not know. 

Her heart felt heavy and cracked. Before she rounded the hilltop she fell to her knees, fingers sinking into the damp earth and grass. A broken sound hurt her throat as it was choked up. It stung like stomach acid. It tasted like despair. Body shuddering she buried her face in the ground beneath her, wishing it would swallow her whole. 

No more soft smiles and playful barbs, no more intelligent conversations and quiet evenings. 

Loneliness.

Rejection.

Shame. 

Derision. 

The possibility of finding one as accepting as Lord Hux had been was minuscule, not even worth considering. Once again Aneirin would accept life as a spinster, throwing herself into her work to fill the void where the promise of romance and love eternal had been.

She had to patch the wound.

The first step was getting back to her feet. Then drying her eyes and wiping the dirt from her hands. Then cresting the hill with her head held high.

To her surprise, the name on the fence at the end of the path was her own. It had felt like a divine sign and her heart lightened.

Then it sank under tumultuous dark waters once more.

It appeared the man of the household was a cousin of her father’s. The man did not have the same red hair or thick mountainous physique but there was some resemblance, she supposed. Aneirin thus had 10 second-cousins by way of him and his plump middle-aged bride who had hair so fair it was almost white, but not the kind of white one had as a geriatric. 6 boys, 4 girls, one boy and girl were twins. The oldest was only a little younger than herself and the youngest was only in his second calendar year of life.

First, they had reacted poorly to her state of dress; they had addressed her as a man, though timidly as if they were unsure of what they were looking at. Then she had spoken, given her name and the name of her father, and they were a little more amenable to inviting her into their home. Aneirin explained she was a nurse and that she had been working for Lord Hux, whom her family seemed to know by way of mouth. ‘Cursed,’ they had said.

“Well, just as well, you’re among family now.” Aneirin smiled kindly at her cousin’s wife. Family had once been very important to her, even if it had been just her parents and herself. From what she now knew, Armitage had not had the pleasure of knowing such a kind household.

  
_What I would have given to be his companion then, to impart some happiness._

“And your timing couldn’t be better. We’ve been trying to find Victor a wife for ages.”

  
_But I do not know that man, let alone love him._

Aneirin’s smile faltered and she tried to seem more apologetic than put off. “I do not think I am ready for such an endeavour, after the past year and so that I have had. I believe I am in need of some time.”

  
_Seeing as I would have been wed soon._

“Don’t be silly. You’re getting old, you can’t wait forever. You need to be having children soon.” Just as the woman mentioned the subject, the baby in her lap began to squall. A muscle in Aneirin’s face twitched but she tried to close her ears to the grating noise.

  
_Armitage did not mind my age._

“I am afraid I do not desire children.” The couple acted as if she had slapped them across the face herself.

  
_Armitage embraced my personal beliefs, despite their unconventional nature._

“Don’t be daft. That is all that schooling and free thinking.”

  
_Armitage appreciated my education and the capabilities of my mind._

“My schooling has allowed me to help m-"

“Girl, you’re dressed as a man! Utterly ridiculous. What was wrong with your mother?”

  
_Armitage would never ask me that kind of question._

Aneirin’s fingers dug into her palms in order for her to maintain her calm. “My mother was very proud of the woman I became.”

“Bless her soul. She didn’t want you to know her disappointment.” The continued wailing of the infant had the nurse closing her eyes tightly.

“I must apologize, but I have had a long journey and I believe I would be better company if I had a night’s rest.” Her cousin got to his feet to show her a place she could sleep.

“Of course, we can discuss this more in the morning.”

Given the hour she fell into slumber quickly and her habit of waking extremely early to tend to a sick Lord Hux in the middle of the night or sit with the occasional insomniac meant Aneirin would not be in the house when her newfound family woke.

  
_My family is back across the moors._


	7. Phædo

Armitage Hux had endeavoured to spend as little time away as possible and when a message arrived for him to inform the lord of the incident at the manor, he cut his trip even shorter. The message had been read the morning after his first night in London and he left that evening. Even though he had been aware Aneirin was no longer in the house, he still went to each of her most frequented rooms in a vain attempt to find her, as if he was a dog that did not know its master had died elsewhere.

Like a dropped mirror his heart shattered into a million little shards. He was angry, hurt, but, most surprisingly, _scared_. In her absence he did not know what to do, the ship of his life suddenly rudderless. Adrift, buffeted by the waves of catastrophically strong emotions, he fell hard to his knees, from his throat a sound of existential horror so pure it could have been a Platonic Form. It took all of his power to maintain his dignity, the only thing he had left, and not vomit on the rich rug of his bedroom floor. Instead, he felt cold, Death caressing his face in anticipation, and his muscles were weak, his soul no longer attached to his body.

The distraught man had a fortifying drink of whisky, then a second, then a third, all in quick succession, practically one rather large glass. The burn of the spirit bothered him little, possibly even helped to soothe other pains, and the intoxicating effect bolstered his desire for revenge. Against all better judgement and advice, he stomped his way to the attic, undid the bolts that locked his wretched stepmother away, and stood in the light filtering through a set of dormers. “Where are you, you foul cunt?”

Normally that riled the woman, someone he once had to pay respect to and address properly. He had considered killing her, as a mercy and also to be done with it, but she had her moments of clarity and during those it felt wrong to plan her demise. Cecilia had not been as cruel as his father, more dismissive and a little scathing than anything. Armitage had been proof of infidelity, after all; she would never let him forget he was a bastard and not her own. It had also kept the wound of her infertility fresh, never allowing her to settle into the state of a childless life.

_Weak little thing._

_Punishment for being a bastard._

_Punishment for being made of sin._

_A good woman would forgive you, treat you like her own._

“Do you have any idea as to what you have done?” The attic remained quiet, no hint of movement or response. “Perhaps you do, for you have always been inclined to ruin my life!”

_I am not a good woman._

_You will never be welcome here._

_I would rather see my home **burn**._

His tirade proved useless to lure his stepmother from whatever dark recess she was hiding in and he was forced, by frustration and a need for more drink, to leave the attic. Giving no thought to decorum he did not pace or control his imbibing, only pausing when the painful thoughts were dulled enough for his liking. One moment he would be inconsolable with tears and the next he would be in a fit of hysterical laughter at nothing discernible to the outsider. Conversations played in his head. At one point Armitage engaged in an act of perversion he had not done since he was a young man. This time he had a body in mind, as well as he could imagine what it looked like under those trousers and shirts, and a name to moan when he found his release between the sheets of his bed and a pillow.

He would not be able to remember it but he managed to have a few more drinks and find the bed most recently used by his lost love. Crawling into it like some pathetic alley cat in need of shelter to lick its wounds, he wrapped himself in her smell, buried his face in her pillow that he wet with tears. Then sleep, heavy and inviting, promising to mask his suffering, found him.

The events that left the Hux manor in a blackened shell were difficult for Armitage to recall. Vaguely he remembered being woken by his steward and the choking odour of many things burning. He saw himself attempting to save something that had been his beloved’s, despite the fact that it was already engulfed in flame, a ritual sacrifice of science. The drunken grief-addled decision cost him, but he had only wanted to have one last piece of a life ruined.

Thus Miss Pritchard found the place she had called home for quite some time, that she imagined living in for even more time. It was still smouldering in the light grey drizzle, small plumes of smoke still rising in denser piles of debris. Shock struck her first, then panic almost convinced her to dig through the fire’s detritus with her own bare hands to find what she did not know precisely. Logic and caution won, knowing that there would undoubtedly be hazards in such an endeavour.

Having been apprised of Lord Hux’s holdings and assets in preparation of being wed, Aneirin decided that she would hate herself if she did not attempt to know what had happened. She needed to know what happened to her love. So she began her journey to the summer estate with the big placid pond and the great willow with limp limbs so long they touched the surface like a dryad playing with the waters. Armitage had described it to her as one of his favourite places to go when he was a child and so she assumed he would be more inclined to relocate there in the wake of such tragedy.


	8. Prometheus

Aneirin was unsure of what to expect when she arrived at the house with the pond and the tree, but she had prepared herself for the worst, that its lord had perished or was breathing his last few unbearable breaths. The steward was sombre in place of his typical stoic personality that she had playfully called ‘charming,’ but instead of being informed that there was nothing for her to see, he led her to the largest of the suites. The air was stale, an attempt had been made to circulate in the freshness outside with open windows, the gentle breeze sending lighter draperies fluttering, but the musk of a seldom-used house discomforted her nose that had once inhaled the vapours of decaying disgusting things.

“Leave me be.”

The sight of him, a mass of entangled blankets and sheets, the usually well-kept strands of his fine hair in chaotic disarray, all indicating a long body curled upon itself, squeezed her heart. The smell of antiseptic, blood, and cotton overpowered the dust, her olfaction tuned to the detection of wounds and illness. The window he was facing had been drawn and instinctively she moved to it in sweeping steps to throw the curtains back. Sunlight illuminated the scattered dust like a night sky and she looked out across the green lawn towards the pond. “I would think, for all you have said about it, that you would want this view.”

Though injured and in considerable pain, having refused to take much in the way of relievers or sedatives in a strong desire to avoid addiction and a sorrier state than the one he was in, Armitage came to sit up so quickly his fabric cocoon pulled him to the floor with a loud thud. Without hesitation, Aneirin spun on her heel and knelt to help him. The bandages on the left side of his face were the first things to surprise her, the second was a lack of a hand opposite her right where she attempted to take it. She did not cry in distress or despair, instead, she embraced him so that his tears could be shed on her travel-soiled shirt. “Sweet apparition, what have I done to deserve this torture?”

“Is my presence so abhorrent? I did not think a proper bath the first thing to attend to when there was an object of my affection to find.” Her tone was light, a slight laugh to it, but it did not alleviate his heartache.

“It is only unwanted in that I know you will leave again.” For all the love they had and for all the signs of it in her touch and gentle voice, he was unconvinced, almost sceptical that it had ever once existed. “Undoubtedly my ghoulish form will earn your distaste, the handsome face you desired gone, and not even your angelic soul could forgive me for it.”

“Armitage, do you think because I am poor, obscure, plain and little that I am soulless and heartless?” To punctuate and prove her point she removed his head from her shoulder to place a chaste kiss to his trembling lips that tasted faintly of salt. Tenderly she stroked the unmarred side of his face, careful to not cause him discomfort by touching his healing wounds. She could tell they would need tending to soon, but the crack in his heart required her more immediate attention. “I love you for more than your beautiful countenance. I appreciate the quality of your soul just as much if not more than the symmetry of your flesh.”

His uncovered green-grey eye was burdened with the work of two in soaking up the radiance of her honest smile and loving eyes. They reminded him of still deep waters or the rich fabrics on nobles depicted in portraits hanging in manors he once envied. Finding truth and an openness that the whole of the Queen’s Royal Navy could sail through, Armitage looked down to the rug beneath him in shame and guilt. A small soft hand cupped his sharp cheek, tilting him to face her again, a silent question creasing the skin of her brow. “I have done something terribly wrong, to have you flee from me in such a manner.”

“The emotions of survival and fear overtook me. In the clarity that followed I was certain I was wrong and that I would come back to you.” Her fingers attempted to straighten the crown of red hair with precise strokes. “At the orphanage, a pair of girls who were unarguably wicked and cruel locked me in a closet. My mind went back there, to the cramped little room with no source of light as if I had been thrown into a hole so deep in the earth the sky could not be seen. I could not bear it if the man I had given my heart to was so vile to throw me in some room with no way out. You would not do that to me, you are kind and sweet to me.”

“My darling, you must believe I could never do such a wretched thing to you. I wish to look upon your perfect face for every last day of my cursed life. To hear your soothing voice and feel your touch. The moment I lose your love I hope to perish so that I might not know such sorrow.” Armitage placed his hand over the one she held to his face, pressing it more fully against him. Lightly his thumb traced the curve of her knuckles, every ridge a mountain he would gladly brave. “Please, I beg of you, be mine eternally. I will forever be yours.”

“I assure you, should I perish before you even my spirit will stay by your side.” They shared a long passionate kiss that lasted a lifetime but still not long enough to convey how completely they adored one another.

The Herculean task of setting his heart to mend complete, she set herself on helping him to his feet and then to replacing his bandages. Armitage winced, shied, and whined, which bruised her emotions almost to the point of weeping, but she hid it behind the calm exterior she employed while doing such careful work. Aneirin kept her opinions to herself, not wanting to cause him distress, but the sight of his fresh wounds hurt as if they were her own. As she wrapped the strip of fresh cotton around his terminated wrist she forced a smile to her face. “I will need to acquire a new book stand so that you might use it to play cards with me.”

“I feel most guilty that your belongings have been reduced to ash.”

“So have yours. And the belongings of an orphan are so rarely of great value. I took everything I could not part with in my satchel, all else can be replaced.” Gently she pressed his injured arm between her hands, eyes piercing his to communicate with his very soul. “You cannot. I am most thankful that you are still here in this world with me.”

Armitage thought on her words and for a moment she assumed the subject would be left to rest. “I am thankful you left the manor.”

“Pardon?”

“If you had stayed, the possibility of your potential death is too great for me to consider fully.” He brushed a lock of her burnished gold hair behind her ear, fingertips caressing the shell of it. “That response of survival likely proved to be useful.”

“Likely your innate desire to be close to me proved to save your life. They believe the fire started in your rooms. Your distance from the source allowed more time for you to be discovered and flee.” Together they sat on the edge of his bed now freshly cleaned and made, their hands resting inside one another in a loose entanglement.

“Then I should hope from this day forward you are never in harm’s way.”


	9. Forged in Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and enjoying this story. I know many hoped it would be longer, but after Death by a Thousand Cuts I think I am in my 'concise stage.' I hope I at least did this era and Charlotte Brontë some justice. 
> 
> While I've never really gotten into this time period, this one is definitely going into the list of my stories that I'll be eventually bookbinding into a collection.

Words that could properly convey the depth and severity of Armitage’s love did not always come so readily, leaving him to feel inadequate even after they were wed. Aneirin had refused his request to wait until he had been healed, an act she knew to be rooted in his belief that she would not want to be married to such a face. She treated him with such care and tenderness, looked at him with warmth unimaginable, that he was sure his heart would burst in his chest. Her eyes did not stray from his unfortunate wounds, her lips still kissed the scars as they knitted his skin back together, and she did not shy from his touch. No request was too petty, no difficulty unworthy of her aid. Finally able to ignore the rules of a working relationship and courting couple, he felt his life so perfect, given the circumstances, that he wondered if he had perished in the fire and this was his small piece of heaven.

Since no phrase or act of the flesh felt satisfactory to express how utterly alone and miserable he would be without her love, Lord Hux had to employ his vast wealth to create a gesture so grand he secretly hoped his beloved wife might be moved to tears. At first, he had received confusion, the cogs and levers of her mind almost visibly turning as Aneirin stared at the building before her.

They had taken a ride to the portion of land she had first been introduced to and she had expected to see the burned-out shell of the manor despite it having been years since its destruction. When she spied the hint of an edifice she believed he was showing her a rebuilt home for them to share, but upon closer inspection, it did not give the impression of a home. Armitage helped her down from her horse and placed his hand on the small of her back to encourage her forward. “Come, I wish to show you what is inside.”

The interior was clean, its choice of colours calming and soft. Quiet and designed in such a way to maximize the use of natural light, it would prove an adequate place for rejuvenation and respite. A young woman dressed in starched whites bowed slightly as she passed the couple and Aneirin’s eyes followed her down the hall. “Armitage, I believe someone has built a hospital on your land.”

“I am afraid so. However, that someone is myself and it is more than just a hospital.” As if on cue a man, obviously a physician from his dress, came to meet them. From his accent she knew him to be from somewhere in Central Europe, Bohemia possibly, and for whatever reason, his thick moustache that was carefully combed amused her. Introductions were made and she was surprised, though admittedly not much, to hear that her husband had sung her praises to a number of medical scientists.

As it so happened they were standing in an institution of unprecedented advancement and importance. In the true spirit of its recipient, the gift was a place of discovery and enlightenment, for anyone who could manage the tasks set before them, no matter their sex or station. Although much later in life than most, Aneirin earned the respect and title due a physician and she spent her days either performing research, imparting her knowledge on her pupils, or tending to the sick. Its status as a teaching hospital allowed more affordable care to the downtrodden and impoverished and what little could be spared was happily given in gratitude.

Filled with an unquenchable fire of determination and love, Aneirin’s mind for research became singular in purpose until finally, she felt prepared to give her loving husband a gift of his own. The hopeful restoration, although possibly only partial, of his left eye’s sight through a new technique of ocular surgery. While nervous and hesitant, Armitage accepted, citing that unless he met an unfortunate end on the table then most likely his situation could not get worse. When it came time to determine if her efforts had born fruit, he had smiled and with soft words said, “I did not consider it possible for you to become even more beautiful.” It had earned him a playful smack to the thigh and a peppering of kisses.

Left alone during the days, Armitage became lonely even though his heart was lightened to give his beloved lady such an admirable purpose. Despite his wife’s acceptance of his change in appearance, he still felt too damaged and pitiful to be seen as often in society as he used to and so he spent the majority of his time in relative solitude. It had not gone without her notice and one night Aneirin sat with him after their supper, trying to find whatever it could be that would brighten his mood. “I have a terribly awful idea.”

His lips curled into a smirk. “If you could transplant a hand I am not sure if I would find that monstrous or miraculous.”

“No, I do not think that is an endeavour I will see in my lifetime.” She waited for him to hazard another guess, but he continued reading the book in his lap. “We could adopt a child.”

That gained his full attention and the myriad of emotions that cross his face made it difficult to understand what he was feeling or thinking. “Why do you say that?”

“You are lonely without me. I know you accepted that we would have a childless union but I am sure it still weighs on your heart. If you had someone to nurture and love while I am at the hospital…” Aneirin felt it unnecessary to continue her explanation, but a silence hung between them uncomfortably. “We would be a family.”

“And a proper family we would be. What is another orphan in my life? It seems more than appropriate.” There was a fear of rejection, that a child would be unsatisfied with them as parents, but he had agreed to try.

Together they went to the orphanage she had spent many of her young years, hoping that by some divine spirit they would find their new perfect son. Armitage’s unfortunate visage received mixed reactions, but of all the boys that crowded around the couple in the desperate hope of being taken home, one stood out to them like a holy beacon at the top of a tower in a raging storm. Far from the others stood a young boy, sad and shy with hair golden red. He had spied the lord and lady but he had not bothered to approach them and that is how they had noticed. So Aneirin approached, Armitage a few steps behind as to not be too immediately gruesome, and she lowered herself to the boy’s level, which was not far given her stature. She smiled sweetly and held out her hand in a gesture of greeting. “Hello young man.”

“H’llo ma’m.” His voice had been so soft she almost had not heard him. Gently he let his hand be taken in a tender hold.

“My name is Aneirin, this is my husband Armitage. What is your name?” The boy’s blue eyes briefly looked at the tall man when his name was said before returning to the space between his shabbily covered feet.

“Ewan, ma’m.”

“I like that name. Why are you away from all the others, Ewan?” She saw his lower lip tremble but he braved on.

“No one e’er wants me.” Her eyes grew sympathetic and she could feel her heart grow heavy with ache.

“I was you, once. No one ever picked me either.” The boy finally met her eyes in surprise. A kindred soul.

“You were an orphan too, ma’m?”

“I was.” She squeezed his small hand. “That is why I would like to give you the home I never had.”

Tears started to form in the ginger boy’s eyes, a flush forming under the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. His gaze once again flicked between the woman and her husband who had taken a cautious step forward. “Do you really mean that, ma’m?”

Aneirin nodded, tears in her own eyes, emotion closing her throat to the point where it was impossible to talk. Armitage knelt on the floor with the other two as best he could to be part of the little meeting. Ewan, realizing the woman was too close to tears to continue speaking, turned to the man who wanted to be his new father. “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but how did you get that scar?”

How to answer the question had weighed on his mind and he had considered what was the best way many times. Seeing his wife moved to tears, finding some kinship already with this boy, he did not feel so hideous in the face of such an honest curiosity. “My stepmother sought to hurt me. She never liked me much.”

“My mother didn’t like me either.”

“Her loss is our gain. Because we would love to have you as our own.” The boy looked between them, unable to decide what he wished to do, how to express his gratefulness. So he attempted to wrap his arms around the couple, burying his face in someone’s shirt to hide his tears. Aneirin, the more able-bodied of the two, extricated him from his grip on Armitage and lifted him up, swaying in gentle arcs to soothe.

Ewan proved to be bright and sweet, the perfect companion for a couple valuing intellect and peacefulness, though the occasional adventure kept them feeling young and playful. Armitage shared his favourite childhood spots and old games. He taught him to read and write, to one day be a proper little lord to take the place of his parents when they could no longer take care of their business. Some remarked, when it came time to socialize him, that he could almost pass for their flesh and blood, sharing the brilliant red hair with his father and the kind blue eyes of his mother. At full height, he stood a little above the tall man’s shoulders and held the same love of resting his face on Aneirin’s head when they embraced. Had they been younger, maybe they would have adopted more, but it was not long before Armitage’s desire to nurture would be sated with the arrival of a grandchild.

A bastard and an orphan, they had both been told that happiness was never in their future. How wrong those people were as the two never went to sleep wondering if they were loved or needed.


End file.
